GRAFITTI

This is the most recent thing I've written, only a about a week or so ago. I worked this one for five hours, from full stop to full stop. I think I'm happy with it. Except the title - almost apt, but not satisfactory.

Grafitti

Oh, do not grow fond of these fingerprints.
They have travelled far across these pages,
nicked and rough, and ink-stained so ugly;
seasoned by the stench of blood and mud,
by chalk-dust that chokes little children,
and the fluids of my body. These
hands are not meant for your hands to hold;
these shameful, painful peasant frames
that mould and hold and surrender,
with no sorrow, all they've ever made.

For all young men grown old in their bones,
and all grandfathers alone in their homes,
these fingers tell stories in scabs
and scratches against these city walls.
All their names are sweet secrets
inscribed in the margins and lost
in the safest reaches of memory,
in the realm of forgotten fancies.

Oh, do not grow fond. Do not get lost.